The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche

by de la Roche, Mazo

  Adeline said to him at the first opportunity, “You were splendid, Mooey. When I was listening to you I felt that you could do anything you wanted — if you chose to try.”

  “I could do anything with you beside me.” He spoke close to her ear because of the din of talk. His cheek touched the fine hair at the temple.

  The bridegroom also spoke. With literary care he had composed his speech. He had carefully memorized it, so there should be no haltings, no stammering — and there were not. However, he uttered the speech in so low a tone that it was practically inaudible, yet everybody was so in sympathy with him that when he smiled at a little witticism he had made they all smiled too.

  Maurice had been firm in his promise not to drink — that is, up to this day he had been firm. But there were healths to drink and champagne to drink them in. Flushed, laughing, happy in his success as a speaker, happier still in Adeline’s praise, he was carried away, his resolve melted. By the time the married pair had driven off in a car stormed by confetti he was uncertain in everything he said or did. Only one certainty was left him and that was that he must leave before Adeline noticed his condition. He saw Finch and went to him.

  “Uncle Finch,” he said, “I want to spend the night with you. I c-can’t go home. Do you mind?”

  “Of course, old man — I’ll be glad to have you. I’ll bring round my car and take you over whenever you like. What about going up to my old room here and resting for a bit?”

  Maurice gave a dazed laugh. “Two flights of stairs! I couldn’t do it. For God’s sake take me now.”

  Piers strolled up. He looked his son over.

  “Tight, eh?” he remarked, not unsympathetically.

  “He thinks,” said Finch, “he’d like to spend the night with me.”

  “Good idea. We don’t want him at home like this.”

  “He’d like to go now.”

  “Right. Get him out of the way before his mother sees him.”

  Maurice stood, swaying a little, a troubled smile on his face.

  Piers took his arm and walked beside him, as though in confidential conversation, to the porch.

  “Explain to Aunt Alayne,” said Maurice. “Tell her I have a headache.”

  “I will.”

  Finch was in his car on the drive. Piers said to him, as Maurice sank into the back seat, “Make him go to bed. Don’t let him drink any more.” He added in a lower tone, “Damned good speech he made, wasn’t it?”

  Adeline had not seen the departure. At that moment Archer was asking her, under cover of the babble of voices, “I wonder why there are so many flowers and so much ceremony and, after that, eating and drinking, both at funerals and weddings.”

  “I’ve never thought about it.”

  “I guess —” His eyes did not leave her face. He seemed to be watching for the effect of his words. “I guess it’s to hide what’s really going on.”

  “You,” she told him, “should always wear a wreath of flowers on your head — to hide what’s going on in it.”

  Alayne was passing, and, seeing them apparently engaged in a pleasant interchange, asked, “Enjoying yourselves, darlings?”

  “Oh yes, Mummy,” they both agreed.

  Dennis, in his best dark-blue suit and white shirt, had, as so often, been hovering near Finch, had heard him agree to Maurice’s spending the night with him. He did not hesitate. He edged his way past the wedding guests, slipped through the front door, then ran across the snowy lawn, through the little gate and down into the ravine. The path there was still visible. The snowfall had been light. It was not very dark down there, for there were many stars shining between the branches. Yet Dennis was very much afraid. He ran so fast that his heart became like a live thing struggling to get out between his ribs. He kept up his courage by saying over and over, “I’ll get there first — see if I don’t!”

  At last he could see the house and the lights in the music room. There was as yet no sound of the car. He went into the hall, taking care to wipe the snow off his feet on the mat. He thought the house was very beautiful.

  He tore off his clothes and, naked but for his little woollen undervest, got into bed between the cold sheets. He heard Finch and Maurice coming in at the door.

  “I’m going to put you right into bed, Maurice,” Finch was saying. “Then I must go back to the party.”

  “Awright,” came docilely from Maurice.

  They came into the bedroom.

  Dennis kept his eyes tight shut.

  “W-why,” said Maurice, “there’s your boy in the bed.”

  Finch leant over Dennis. “why are you here?” he asked. And so early to bed?”

  “I was tired. I thought of my own bed and I came to it.”

  “S-splendid,” Maurice said, smiling down at Dennis. “I’ll shleep on couch.” He added, in what he believed to be an undertone, “Sweet lil boy ... how nice he looks lying there.”

  Dennis smiled up at him, very pleased with himself.

  “Dennis can sleep on the couch,” said Finch. “I’ll give you pyjamas ... Lord, I must get back to the party.”

  But Maurice insisted on leaving Dennis in possession. When Finch had established him on the couch in the music room and gone off in his car, Dennis could hear him singing softly to himself in a pleasing baritone:

  She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps.

  After a while he called out, “Dennis! Are you awake?”

  “Yes, Maurice.”

  “Do you think you could get me a drink? I’m not feeling well ... shouldn’t risk walking ... too damn dizzy.”

  “A drink of water?”

  “No.... Something out of the decanter on sideboard.”

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t.”

  “Awright, Dennis.... Doesn’t matter.”

  After that there was silence.

  XXII

  Meg Married

  EARLY IN THE New Year Maurice returned to Ireland and Christian accompanied him. He was to remain with him till spring. He then was to go to the Slade School of Fine Arts in London. When he left Ireland, Pheasant was to make her long-promised visit to Maurice, taking little Mary with her. Though Maurice had — with the exception of his lapse at the time of the wedding — shown real firmness in his resolve to avoid drinking, Piers and Pheasant felt that it would be reckless to allow him to return alone. Christian was able to persuade them that no temptation for him lay in companionship with Maurice. He could, in fact, persuade them of whatever he chose. After London he would persuade them to send him to Paris for study.

  At the time of saying goodbye Maurice took Adeline’s hands in both of his. “Remember,” he said, “that I have not given up hope.”

  Her hands in his did not relax. “I shall not marry anyone. I can be happy without that. I don’t want it — not now.”

  “You say that, but you’ll change your mind. Adeline. You can’t make me believe that a love like mine won’t beget love. It can’t just perish.”

  “I’ve seen love perish.”

  “Not my sort.” He tried to draw her to him. He would never touch her with anything but gentleness. “A kiss,” he pleaded, “a real kiss — not just a peck, sweetheart.”

  She kissed him, taking the initiative in almost aggressive consent. “There,” she said. “Now, goodbye.”

  She was relieved when he was gone. Yet strangely she missed him. Sometimes she pictured him and Christian at Glengorman. Letters from Christian told of his delight in the Irish countryside. He sent her a sketch he had made of Maurice — an excellent likeness — and this she pinned up in her bedroom.

  The winter passed, quickly it seemed, in its first months, then slowly, as March absent-mindedly still wrapped itself in garments of ice and snow. But at the end a heavy rain came and warm spring air, and in the morning mail the collected edition of Eden’s poems. The three slender volumes made a sizeable book when bound together, with an introduction by a well-known American critic. The binding was a charming s
hade of blue, with silver lettering. The frontispiece was a portrait of Eden. The sea, the clouds, the stars, seemed to shine out of that young face. He looked ready for a long and happy life.

  Renny, who found the book on the desk in his office in the stables, where it had been brought by Wright from the post, examined it with pride, the lines about his lips and eyes intent. Through the open door he saw Wright passing and called out to him.

  “Wright — come in here for a minute.”

  Wright entered. “Yes, sir.” He looked at the book in Renny’s hands. Very fancy, he thought, for a book about horses.

  “Wright,” said Renny, “this is the collected poems of my brother Eden. You remember how he was always writing verses.”

  “I do indeed, sir. Well ... that’s wonderful ... and so long after ... I’ll not touch it, as my hands aren’t very clean. But — thanks for showing me.”

  “Look.” Renny opened the book at the portrait. “A good likeness, eh?”

  Here was something Wright could appreciate. “Gosh, sir,” he exclaimed. “I’ve never seen a better likeness. It’s as though he was in the room with us.” Both men bent to examine the portrait.

  “I used to think,” Wright said, “it would have been better for him if he’d written less poetry and done more riding. He was a first-rate rider. Good hands and a good seat.”

  “Yes. I thought so many a time when he was ill.”

  “But — in that case — you’d never have had the book, sir.”

  “True.”

  “There’s compensations, I always try to think.”

  Six copies of the book had been sent from the publisher. Renny went over in his mind the names of those to whom he would give them. It did not enter his mind that other copies might be bought. One for himself and his family. One for Meg and hers. One for Piers and his. One for Finch. One for Wakefield. One for Roma. She, of course, would have the royalties. These, he guessed, remembering Eden’s other books of poetry, would not be large. He gave a grimace, half pride, half ruefulness, when he considered what a family of artists they were growing to be. Eden, Finch, Wake, Nook, and now here was Humphrey with his novel.

  He walked across the squelchy fields, with crows flying overhead, to carry Meg’s copy of Eden’s poems to her.

  She took it in her hands with an exclamation of delight, but when she opened it and saw Eden’s picture she burst into tears.

  “Oh, the poor dear boy,” she sobbed. “To think that he had to die! And to suffer so long! My one consolation is that I did everything in my power to comfort him.”

  “You did indeed, Meggie.... Now, cheer up. Your wedding is coming soon. You have lots of pleasant things to think of.”

  She dried her eyes. “Already the presents are beginning to come. And the Bishop is to perform the ceremony. Rupert is so pleased.”

  “Splendid.” He patted her plump back. Then he asked, “Meggie, why don’t you dye your hair before the wedding?”

  “Me dye my hair! why, I’ve been grey for years and years. Why on earth should I dye my hair now?”

  “Well, Rupert has shaved off his beard. Am I to call him Rupert, by the way?”

  “It scarcely sounds respectful, but — I think he’d like it. I am sure he’d not like to see me with different hair. In fact he has more than once admired my hair. He says it sets off my fresh complexion.”

  “But how much better would red hair set it off. I say, Meg, I’ve read the advertisements for hair tinting. I do wish you’d try red.”

  “Me with red hair! You’re joking.”

  “No — I’m in dead earnest. I can just picture you and Rupert marching along the aisle to the strains of the Wedding March — he smooth-shaven, you red-haired.”

  “I’d break off the engagement first.”

  “Aunt Augusta dyed her hair, didn’t she?”

  “She did. A purplish black.”

  “Ah, but the new shades are different. How about blue?”

  “I loathe blue hair. No, Renny — I refuse. You’re wasting your breath.”

  At this moment Humphrey came into the room in a panic.

  “whatever is wrong, dear?” Meg asked him, as one would speak to a frightened child.

  “A reporter,” he said, breathing hard. “Come to interview me about my book.”

  “That just proves,” she said soothingly, “how successful it is.’’

  “But he’s a reporter for an Americanmagazine!”

  “Better still. Humphrey, dear, it’s splendid.”

  “But he will probably call me the undersized, thirty-three-year-old albino author. I won’t see him ... I won’t ... I won’t. Tell him I’m having an attack of amnesia. Tell him I’m dead!”

  “I’ll see him for you,” said Renny.

  “Oh, thank you. Could you possibly pretend you’re me?”

  “Well ... I’ll think about it.”

  “Those fellows give you no time to think,” said Humphrey Bell.

  In Meg’s pretty drawing-room Renny found the personable young reporter, who asked with unconcealed surprise, “Mr. Bell?”

  Renny shyly bowed and offered him a limp hand.

  “You have written a very unusual novel, Mr. Bell.”

  “We think so,” said Renny, looking at the young man’s shoes.

  “We?”

  “My wife and I.”

  “I see.” He was writing in a notebook. “Been married long?”

  “Since last December. If you look out of that window you’ll see my wife coming in at the gate.”

  “She looks very young.”

  “She is, but I don’t mind.”

  “Mr. Bell, would you tell me what influenced your choice of the theme of the story?”

  “I don’t know. It just came to me.”

  “I see.” He was writing in his notebook. “It’s very fine, I think, the way you have turned the struggles of pride and envy and passion into life in this book.”

  “Yes, isn’t it?”

  “You see, I’ve read the book.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  The reporter grinned, then asked, “Have you read it, Colonel Whiteoak?”

  Renny stared at him in amazement. “why — I’ve tried to,” he said, then demanded, “who the devil do you think ...”

  The young man answered with a laugh, “I saw you ride in Madison Square Gardens several years ago. I recognized you as soon as you came into the room.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “That was a lovely horse and a grand performance you gave on it.”

  “Thanks. You like horses, eh? Now let me take you to my stables and I’ll show you some very promising colts....”

  “I’d like very much to see them, but my job is to interview Mr. Bell. Is he here?”

  “He is, but he just can’t stand interviews. He’s a very nice fellow but shy, and he has a strange sort of idea that his manner of living is his own business. Well — that’s not the way to show horses — to be sensitive and reserved and all that, is it?”

  “Then you think Mr. Bell won’t see me? I’d ask no more than a quarter of an hour.”

  “There’s not a chance of it. Better come straight to the stables with me.”

  Soon they were standing before the loose-box where East Wind was being groomed. He stood regarding them with good-humoured unconcern.

  “He’s lately come home,” exclaimed Renny. “He was in training all the winter on a straw track, under cover, but he’s soon to go into the open.”

  It all ended by the young journalist’s writing an article about the stables at Jalna. In Renny’s office, over a drink, material for a lively interview was garnered.

  With great speed the weeks flew to the time of Meg’s marriage. The day came, in springtime warmth. The church bell rang out. Small birds winged their way, in mighty purpose, with straws in their beaks. Noah Binns was able to get as far as the church and sit on a bench directing young Chalk in the bell-ringing. Meg had carried spr
ing flowers that morning and laid them on the graves of the departed Whiteoaks. The prettiest she laid on the graves of Eden and Nicholas.

  The wedding was an impressive ceremony, for there was the Bishop, and there was Mr. Fennel, looking like another bishop. There was Finch at the organ, for Miss Pink was down with ’flu — providentially, it seemed to Meg. There was Meg herself, in a lovely lavender silk dress and a tiny French hat. There was Renny, giving her away, and there was Rupert, taking her — to have and to hold till death did them part. There was the church packed with people, there was Jalna packed with people. Finally there were the happy couple setting out to fly to Victoria, where the Rector had a brother, an aunt aged ninety, three cousins, a niece, and five nephews.

  Roma regretted, she said, that because of a press of work she could not come to the wedding. She sent Meg a pretty handbag, the replica of the one she had sent Patience.